


Fresh Ice, Pumpkin Spice, and Everything Nice

by Celly1995



Series: "Will It Blend?" [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Not Hockey Player(s), Blow Jobs, Butts, Condoms, Fluff and Smut, Hockey Ass Appreciation, Hockey Player Patrick Kane, Idiots in Love, Jonny is Not a Pro Hockey Player, Judgmental Jonny, M/M, Pumpkin Spice, Smut, The Author Regrets Nothing, smoothies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 07:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7968151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celly1995/pseuds/Celly1995
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On its own, pumpkin is pretty bland. But add a pinch of spice...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fresh Ice, Pumpkin Spice, and Everything Nice

**Author's Note:**

> I owe many thanks to those who helped get this thing up and posted. To Zandra, for not letting me forget the idea in the months since I had it and generally egging me on, especially at the beginning and very end, and for image #1; to Esby, for letting me ramble at her and giving me what is one of my favorite lines in this whole thing, and for image #2; to Kristin, for all the word wars and a bit of help with the logistics and answering a handful of questions about Johnny's IceHouse; to Groolover, for the beta work outside her fandoms and letting me hassle her at ridiculous hours. Also thanks to the 1988 contingent on Twitter, for the general cheerleading and enthusiasm and wonderful inspiration ♥
> 
> [General note as to timeline, etc: As this is an AU where Jonny's never played pro hockey, and is also an AU where certain players who are no longer in Chicago are still part of the team, it doesn't follow any particular season, nor does it account for the WCOH schedule. Also, any errors in the layout of a certain practice facility are my own and due to my failure to verify certain specifics with the one person I know who's actually been there, since Google only gives you so much info.]

Jonny is really looking forward to getting out of work for the night, hoping to have a chance to enjoy the weather that's finally decided to act like fall after all the ridiculous heat of this summer. All he really wants is a little bit of time to sit outside and breathe the fresh air and enjoy a few moments to himself. He's got his strongest closing employee working tonight, and between both of their efforts, they might actually get out of here quickly, so long as no one walks in last-minute to order a bunch of drinks or anything else not in the grab-and-go coolers.

 

So when the bell over the door chimes at five minutes before seven, Jonny has to bite down on the urge to groan and roll his eyes at whoever the universe sent to ruin his plan. He's thoroughly relieved to see it's just Patrick walking into the shop, even more so when he sees he's already got a disposable cup in one hand, meaning he probably won't want anything that requires Jonny to dirty another blender or other dishes. If it were anyone other than Patrick, Jonny would feel a bit of annoyance at someone bringing an outside drink into his shop. But given the hour and that it _is_  Patrick, Jonny doesn't even bother saying anything about it.

 

Until he gets a better look at what it is that he's holding.

 

"Well, that's fitting," Jonny says with a small snort as Patrick walks up and leans his elbows on the front counter, right where Jonny was about to wipe next, just because he lives to be difficult.

 

"What?"

 

"Short, skinny latte for a short, skinny guy."

 

"One, fuck you. Two, it's called a tall. And three and four, I'm not skinny, and I'm five foot eleven, which is actually the average height for an American male. Dick."

 

Jonny snorts. "All right, most of you isn't skinny. You've got good arms and shoulders, even if you do have little tweety bird ankles." He'd give credit to Patrick's dick, in the 'things that aren't skinny' department, but Jonny knows that'd go straight to his head, not to mention the fact that he's certain the second he uttered a comment like that would be the exact moment his closing employee would choose to come around the corner, done with the dishes and her other back-of-house tasks. He's not tempting the universe like that, thanks. "But if you're five foot eleven, I'm Zdeno goddamn Chara." He pauses, getting a good look at the letters scrawled along the side of Patrick's cup in black permanent marker. "Don't fucking tell me that's pumpkin spice, though." Patrick just huffs and raises his eyebrows as if to say 'and what are you going to do about it?', and Jonny groans. "Fucking seriously?"

 

Patrick makes a face at him. "Yeah, seriously. I get to reward myself every now and then. I had two goals _and_  an assist last night, I deserve an indulgence. Besides, as you already assumed, it's the skinny version, okay? No sugar, no fat. Okay, except for the whipped cream."

 

"Kaner, I saw the pictures. That game last night was just you and some of the guys at a charity thing for kids. Doesn't count." He's not going to admit how cute it was to see those little kids, tiny enough to only come up to Patrick's waist or maybe to his sternum, in jerseys or other gear, posing for photos with the Blackhawks players who were there. He's not sure who had the bigger grin in most of them—the kids, or Patrick.

 

"It counts double, because it was for little kids. That's why I got the whipped cream." He takes a sip of his drink, making exaggerated sounds of enjoyment, and Jonny pinches the bridge of his nose. It's been a long day, and he's been fighting a headache for most of it. It's the changing weather, probably. "Hey, wait, how'd you see those photos?"

 

Now would be the time for Ashley to finish with her job and come back into the front of the shop, to save him. Jonny hesitates for a second, hoping, but apparently the universe isn't giving him that out. "They were online." He doesn't say anything about his mother calling him this morning as he was getting ready for work, telling him his boyfriend looks like the sort of person who really cares about children, which prompted Jonny to google a few things while he was waiting for his oatmeal to be ready.

 

"Yeah, no shit. I know that. What I mean is, how did you find them in the first place? You don't have an Instagram, or a Snapchat, or even a Facebook account. For fuck's sake, Jonny, you don't even use Twitter or anything for your _shop_. I mean, I get the whole crunchy granola hipster thing you've got going, and you make it work enough without being a total pretentious douche and all, but seriously, man, think of the advertising benefits. Reach out to the public. I guarantee you, virtually all of your customers are on social media. Think of all the business you could draw in."

 

Jonny grunts and walks over to the register, entering his codes to get the closing reports going and the credit card batch to run while he starts counting the cash. Normally, he'd kick Patrick out at this point, but fuck it. "No thanks."

 

"I'm serious! You could post pictures of your drinks, make them look all artistic and colorful, or pictures of the local produce you're using, or the newest batch of snacks and shit. Maybe even run specials, like fifty cents or ten percent off, if someone comes in and shows they've followed you on whatever the hell platform you go with." He takes another sip of his drink and makes a noise that Jonny knows means Patrick's come up with something else he's not going to want to hear. "Or, dude, even seasonal specials."

 

Jonny sighs, counting out the last of the dimes and entering the amount into the adding machine tucked under the main counter on a special shelf. "I am not changing my menu, Kaner."

 

"Says the guy who has a secret fucking menu with a drink named after his favorite player."

 

"I don't recall having named something after Sakic," Jonny says mildly, hitting total on the machine now that the quarters have been counted. He looks up for a split second when Patrick splutters into his drink and starts coughing, just to make sure he's not going to die or anything. He seems fine, so Jonny moves on to counting the stack of singles.

 

"Fucking funny, Jonny." Patrick says after he stops coughing. "Cute. But seriously, you know what I'm talking about."

 

"You're talking about pumpkin spice again," Jonny says, losing his place in counting. "Which I have been having to hear about, ad nauseam, from everyone else on the planet, thank you, since the first of the coffee chains debuted their drink three weeks ago.. Pumpkin spice _everything_. Lattes, teas, breads, donuts, cookies, chewing gum, lotion, lip balm, perfume. I've got it. It's a thing."

 

"It's a thing for a reason, man. Seriously. Get in on that limited-time market! Be seasonal! Embrace the pumpkin spice craze!"

 

"I will not embrace it," Jonny grumbles. "Not happening." Ashley finally walks back in, and Jonny sighs in relief. "Ashley, do me a favor and let Patrick out through the front door, please? And lock it behind him."

 

"Oh, so it's like that, I see," Patrick says, holding up his hands, the almost-empty coffee cup still clutched in one. "All right. I'll leave you to your ways, old man." He walks to the entrance of the shop, "Have fun, Jonny. Goodnight, Ashley," he says, waving at her as he steps through the door.

 

"Goodnight, Mister Kane," she says, locking the deadbolt firmly behind him. She walks back up to the counter, where Jonny's separating the cash into two zippered bank bags, one for the next morning's opening shift, and the other for what he's got to finish up recording and bundling in order to drop at the bank on his way home. "Starbucks is finally doing their pumpkin spice lattes?"

 

Jonny tries not to groan. "Since this morning."

 

"Awesome, I'm totally getting one on my way home. Do you need me for anything else? Trash is out, everything's in the walk-in, back's swept and mopped, dishes are drying. Do you want me to put them away?"

 

Jonny shakes his head. "No, I'll take care of it. You're good to go. Thanks, Ashley." He follows her to the back door, so he can watch to make sure she gets to her car okay like he does with all of his employees when he closes. "Hey, can I ask you a question?" he asks as she digs in her purse for her keys.

 

"Yeah, sure."

 

"Do you use social media? Like Instagram and Twitter or Facebook?"

 

"Yeah, of course." She huffs a little, finally pulling a massive keychain out of her purse. "Actually, I'm kind of pissed I didn't check my timeline before work, because I'd have known to stop and get my PSL on. That'll teach me to get caught in a _Stranger Things_  binge before work." She steps through the door. "G'night, Jonny."

 

"Goodnight, Ashley. I'll see you Thursday evening." He waits until she's turned the key in the ignition before closing the back door and locking it, heading back to the office. He's got the dishes to put away, the deposit to finish up, and an order from the local organics supplier to get done so it's ready to fax tomorrow afternoon for the following day's delivery, before he heads home. He gets the bank bag ready, sticks it in the safe for a minute, tosses the last of the dishes where they belong, and finally grabs his clipboard and steps into the walk-in to survey the condition of his stock.

 

His eyes keep drifting down to the bottom of the form the distributor had faxed him this morning, where the seasonal and specially priced items are listed in bold. He makes a lot of use of it during the summer, when certain fruits are cheaper when they're plentiful, but he doesn't have a restaurant or anything that capitalizes on what's usually listed most of the rest of the time. But tonight...

 

"Fuck it, why not?" he mutters, adding a quick number to two of the items at the bottom. If it doesn't work out, at least he won't be out much money, given the promotional prices.

 

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

             

Two days after Patrick shows up in his shop with that damned latte, Jonny trains his staff on a new drink. He tells them it's a trial sort of thing, a new recipe he just wants to get some opinions on, and to let customers know it's an option if they look like they might be up for trying something new. He doesn't say that he won't be surprised if there aren't many takers, because that level of pessimism isn't really his thing, and it definitely isn't something he wants to project to his staff, so he keeps it as upbeat as he can, even if he feels like he's selling out in some way.

 

Whether it's simply the fact that the zeitgeist demands all things spice-flavored this time of year, or if it's some combination of that public expectation and the incredibly enthusiastic attitude of his employees, Jonny doesn't know. Ashley and Garrett especially push the hell out of the new drink, and Jonny figures once most of his regulars have tried it, the drink's popularity will wane.

 

It doesn't wane. It takes off like a goddamned rocket.

 

Jonny sells out two days in a row and has to hit the organic market across town to get a bunch of squash to supplement his order for the next day, and he ends up having to order heavy for the weekend, almost running out even then. He doesn't even get a chance to catch up until Tuesday, when he has time to grab his assistant manager and fiddle with a new snack to go with the new drink. He figures that if he's doing this seasonal thing, he may as well go the whole way. Once they get a good batch of what they decide to call "pumpkin pie bites" and sample them out to the afternoon and evening customers, Jonny realizes it's time to admit defeat and go out and get another board to put with the other signs. He sighs heavily once he gets the last price in place and gratefully turns it over to the most artistic of his employees along with the packet of chalk markers, telling her to go ahead and decorate it so it looks nice. She laughs, saying something about knowing just how to 'spice it up', and Jonny has to lock himself in the office for a few minutes so he can quietly and privately hit his head against the wall—an action he repeats that night, after spending another two hours creating accounts for the shop on Facebook, Twitter, _and_ Instagram.

 

Patrick steps into the shop a week later, once again managing to squeak his way in less than ten minutes before close. Jonny sort of misses the days where he came in regularly after morning practices to get a post-workout protein smoothie, but knows those days probably aren't far from starting back up with the beginning of the season just around the corner. He flicks his eyes over to the door when the bell chimes, catching sight of Patrick just as his customer finally seems to come to a decision regarding his order.

 

"I'll have a large harvest spice smoothie," the guy says, reaching for his wallet, and Jonny shakes his head over the last word.

 

"Sorry, man. I sold out about half an hour ago." He hesitates. Rick's one of his regulars, and Jonny especially hates to disappoint them. "I've got the acorn squash, still, but I'm out of the sweet potato. But if you're feeling flexible, I can sub in some pumpkin in place of the sweet potato."

 

"Done!" Rick agrees, grinning. "I guess now it's even more like pumpkin spice, huh? I had one of these yesterday, when my girl brought one home. It's great, just enough like pumpkin spice to hit that craving, but still keeping true to your healthy vibe." Jonny nods and smiles, grateful Rick didn't use the word "hipster" in there. He tries not to make a face when he sees Patrick do a sort-of double take at Rick's words, looking up at the new additional menu board, which lists the harvest spice smoothie and the pumpkin pie bites. Jonny takes Rick's money and turns to make the drink, and he can practically _feel_  the giant smirking grin radiating from Patrick's face.

 

He wonders briefly if he can have Garrett kick Patrick out for him, just so he doesn't have to deal with whatever mocking he's about to get. Nah. The kid likes hockey and is a Blackhawks fan in particular. With Jonny's luck, he'd side with Patrick on any sort of inconsequential argument.

 

He hands over the drink and goes to lock the door behind his last customer of the evening, squaring his shoulders and bracing himself for whatever Patrick's got in store for him as he pulls the blinds on all of the windows. He turns around to see that same giant smirk and groans internally. "All right, fine. Let's hear it. I can see how badly you want to say something."

 

"You added a pumpkin spice smoothie to your menu," Patrick practically crows. And then, because he's realized Jonny's penchant for pointing out technical flaws in his arguments, corrects himself. "I mean, a smoothie that's basically pumpkin spice _flavored_. You went the seasonal route! I mean, yeah, you probably very deliberately left pumpkin out of the drink and went for another squash and sweet potato, but c'mon, it's the same concept. Cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, plus all the other healthy stuff, topped with cinnamon-dusted roasted pumpkin seeds." His eyes flick back up to the menu board. "Oh my God, you sweeten it with maple syrup. You can take the boy out of Canada, huh?"

 

Jonny can feel himself blushing. He opens his mouth to point out that maple syrup is actually one of the better sweeteners he could be using, and that it contains manganese, vitamin B2, zinc, and a number of other vitamins and minerals, but stops himself. He doesn't need to open himself up to endless Canadian jokes and questions over if he's been paid off by the Maple Syrup Board or whatever.

 

Patrick raises his eyebrows at Jonny's silence. "So. You wanna tell me how your new drink has been selling, hm?"

 

Jonny purses his lips, because he knows Patrick heard him say he'd sold out for the day, and he just wants to rub it in. "It's been a decent seller."

 

"Just decent? Not actually popular?" He's got that lilt to his voice that means he knows what the answer is, and Jonny rolls his eyes up to the heavens, wondering why he likes Patrick, even despite—or maybe because of—how difficult he can be and how much he enjoys being a metaphorical pain in Jonny's ass.

 

"Fine. It's popular, okay?" Really fucking popular, damn it. He hates it.

 

No, actually, what he hates is that it means he's going to have to do this every year, now. And also that—

 

"So I was...?"

 

"You were right about it."

 

"I was! I was soooo right, wasn't I?" Patrick steps into his space behind the counter and pokes him in the chest. "So very, very right. Which means _you_  were wr—mmph."

 

Jonny shuts him up with a quick, hard kiss, knowing that they can't be seen from the sidewalk outside and that they're safely out of his employee's sight, because Jonny can hear him in the back, whistling as he runs some of the dishes through. "Yeah, all right, fine. You win this one. Now shut up and go take the rest of these dishes back to Garrett, would you? If you're going to keep coming in at close, you might as well do some work." He presses the buss tub into Patrick's hands, but leans over it and gives him another quick kiss, this one gentler. "You're such a pain in my ass," he mutters, more affectionate than annoyed.

 

Patrick smirks at him. "Not so much if we go slow and you let me do some prep first." He dodges Jonny's swat, laughing as he takes the remaining dishes to the back where he stays to chat with Garrett while Jonny cleans up the counter, wipes down the cooler, and then takes care of some of the closing tasks up front. Normally, Jonny would tell Patrick not to distract his employee and let him get his job done, but he thinks they're both enjoying their conversation as Garrett finishes his own work, and heaven knows _he's_ okay with Patrick having something to do that isn't giving Jonny shit about being right.

 

Garrett's done and out for the night shortly after Jonny gets the deposit together and seals the bag, and Patrick waits for Jonny outside as he arms the security system and locks up after doing a final pass to check that everything's as it should be for his assistant manager, who will be in before sunrise to check in the morning's delivery and get things going for the day.

 

"You still planning on coming tomorrow morning?" Patrick asks him as they stand beside Jonny's car, both a little reluctant to part ways.

 

Jonny raises his eyebrows. "I said I was going to, didn't I?" He gives Patrick a smile. "I'm looking forward to it, okay?"

 

"It might not be all that exciting, you know," Patrick says with a shrug, and Jonny huffs a sigh.

 

"Patrick. It's hockey. I don't care if it's just practice and not a game. It'll be interesting to watch." He grins. "Besides, after, I can critique you on your technique, getting to finally see it up close." Well, closer than any of the games he's watched on TV, or been in the stands for.

 

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Sure you can. We'll see if you know what you're talking about."

 

"I always know what I'm talking about."

 

"Yeah, unless it's when you're refusing to capitalize on the pumpkin spice trend. Which, I don't know if you know, but I'm pretty sure I was the one who was right about that. Just, y'know, in case you weren't aware." He laughs at the face Jonny makes and turns to head for his own vehicle. "Take care, Jonny. Don't be afraid to admit when you're wrong. Humility is good, isn't that what you told me towards the end of last season? You know, before I took home some hardware?"

 

Jonny just sighs and shakes his head, sliding into the front seat of his own car. "Such a smug pain in the ass," he mutters to himself as he turns his key in the ignition and gets ready to back out of his spot.

 

He's just glad Patrick hasn't discovered the social media accounts for the shop yet.

 

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

 

 

Jonny honestly doesn't get worked up much about the fact that he's dating someone famous, an athlete and NHL star. Patrick's not the only pro hockey player he knows, though he's definitely the only one Jonny knows quite so well. Patrick's human, just like anyone else, no matter how much he gets paid to do something Jonny once fantasized about doing himself.

 

Still, though. It's a little surreal, stepping into Johnny's IceHouse West alongside Patrick, who's got a full equipment bag slung over his shoulder. Jonny schools his face into something neutral, but inside he's a little bit in awe. It could be worse. He could have taken Patrick up on the offer to lace up and step onto the ice for a little while sometime. While he might still be kicking around the concept of accepting at some later date, Jonny's just glad the offer isn't currently there for the same thing at the United Center, because he'd probably skate over his own brother for a chance at that.

 

He's only so strong, damn it.

 

He heads up to the stands where he's directed and assures Patrick he won't be bored just sitting up there, watching everyone else skate and do drills and whatever else is in store for them today. There's still a few weeks until the season begins—even the preseason doesn't start for another week—so the team is gearing up and all, but it's not some ridiculously intense thing where Jonny should feel intrusive and out of place. At least, that's what Patrick says, and Jonny feels trusting enough to take him at his word on this.

 

There really aren't many people watching practice, but Jonny's far from alone. A few of the guys come up to the boards afterwards, sign a few things for the handful of fans who are standing there, looking hopeful. Jonny keeps himself just off to the side, not wanting to be in anyone's way or attract any sort of undue attention, until Patrick catches his eye and gestures to an older gentleman standing just past the seats, looking at him with his arms folded, and then gestures _at_  Jonny to the guy, giving him a very clear nod.

 

"Jonathan?" the man asks, and Jonny nods. "Follow me." He leads Jonny around, outside of the area where the stands are, and back towards the heart of the place, just off where the tunnel connects to the actual dressing room, the one only the Hawks use when they practice here. "Stay out of the locker room itself, but you can wait back here. Or there, if you'd prefer." He points to a spot that's just around the corner, where the players will probably exit when they're done showering or whatever else. "Just don't walk out any doors in this area to get to the main halls, or you won't be able to get back in. No public access without an access badge, an escort, or other arrangement. Got it?"

 

"Got it," Jonny says, nodding again. The guy seems to trust him, because he just walks away, back out the door they came in, and Jonny's left alone. He can hear a few of the players just outside, still chatting with the fans—he hears one of the guys telling a little kid to keep at it, with pee wees, because that's how he started—and then the conversations cut off, only to be replaced with the noise of a bunch of grown men in full gear traipsing their way towards the locker room, chattering amongst themselves.

 

It's so loud, in fact, that Jonny almost dismisses his name when he thinks he hears it, until he hears it again, more clearly: "Yo, Jonny! Over here!"

 

Jonny startles a little, then catches sight of a hand waving at him over other heads, just before its owner shoulders some of the other guys out of the way.  And then there's a face to go with the voice, and Jonny relaxes, because he does know the person hailing him. "Brent, hey."

 

"Hey, man! Never seen you hang out here before! You delivering something to someone else on the team?"

 

"Not exactly," Jonny hedges a little, unsure how to really explain why he's here without lying, without doing something stupid that might out Patrick, before Patrick himself tromps up next to them and saves Jonny from whatever might have come out of his mouth next.

 

"Hey," Patrick says, hip-checking his teammate out of the way and giving Jonny a quick smile, ignoring Brent's _oof, what the fuck, Kaner_. "I'll be done in fifteen, maybe twenty, if I can. Did Gary show you a good place to hang out until then?"

 

"I—yeah, he did."

 

"Good. You weren't bored or anything, were you?"

 

Jonny snorts. "No." Bored isn't even remotely the word he'd use.

 

"Great." Patrick looks pointedly at Brent, who's still standing there, looking at Jonny. Only now he's looking at both him and Patrick, and there are at least three of the other guys hanging back as well. Jonny knows who two of them are simply because he's been watching the Blackhawks since he moved to Chicago a few years ago, and the third—Andrew Shaw—because he's been into the shop a few times a season for the last two years, though he's far from what Jonny would call a regular. "You guys can go. I'll be right in."

 

"Ooh, someone's protective," one of the guys says, teasing, and Patrick rolls his eyes and flips him off. The reaction earns a laugh, and then everyone else heads into the locker room, leaving Patrick and Jonny alone for a moment. Brent gives Jonny a fist-bump on his way with a hand still sweaty from his glove, and Jonny has to admit he hasn't exactly missed the smell of used equipment. He's definitely had an upgrade in the daily-experienced-aromas department, switching from hockey gear and locker rooms to fresh produce and walk-in coolers.

 

Patrick raises his eyes as soon as the rest of the guys are gone, a clear "what the fuck" expression on his face. "So, you know Seabs."

 

"Yeah, kinda," Jonny admits, shrugging one shoulder. It's not like they're friends or anything, but they've had conversations here and there. Jonny's delivered orders to his place before, and his wife's come to the shop to pick some of them up; he's even delivered a box of snacks once to someone in the front office, who'd apparently been given the task of getting it to Brent before the team had caught a flight out of town.

 

Patrick's face does something weird, and Jonny can't figure out what the hell the expression means. And then Patrick huffs, sort of disgruntled, and mutters "unbelievable," which Jonny has just as hard of a time understanding.

 

"What?"

 

"Just how many of my teammate's asses have you checked out, huh?"

 

Jonny...Jonny has no response to that, for about five seconds. And then it clicks a little, how the first real interaction he and Patrick ever had went, and he laughs, finally understanding.

 

"Kaner. Patrick. It's just you." Patrick's pout—it's a legitimate, full-blown pout; Jonny would take a photo for proof if he could—lessens in intensity. And then, of course, Jonny opens his big mouth again, because he can't quite just let that go and, besides, he may as well tell the truth. "Well, maybe, just once. Sharp. But I wasn't all that impressed. Guy should stick to worrying about his pretty face, instead." Patrick's face goes from indignant to skeptical as Jonny speaks, and Jonny rolls his eyes. "Yours is definitely the best, Kaner." And it is, even if Jonny's a little biased, these days. "I wouldn't even think of checking out anyone else's anymore."

 

"Uh-huh," Patrick says, but he looks mollified.

 

"Speaking of asses, you might want to get yours in there," Jonny says, nodding at the locker room. "I'll meet you around the side, there, by that other entrance."

 

Patrick goes, muttering something else that Jonny doesn't catch, but there's something of a smirk on his face as he leaves. Jonny, true to his word, goes to hang out where he's been told he can, trying to find a position in which to sit or stand that doesn't make him look like an awkward creeper. He finally finds a spot that's good for leaning, up against the wall of the locker room area itself, where he's not so close that someone will mow him over when they step out and into the hall. He can hear muffled conversation here and there, a bit of music for a few minutes until someone yells to turn that shit off, and what sounds like running water hitting tile from the actual showers. After a while, that last sound goes away, and the voices are a little louder, a little clearer. And Jonny doesn't _mean_  to eavesdrop, in all honesty, because it just sort of happens, sounds carried out to where he's standing as players and coaches trickle out of the locker room, most of them not even seeing him, though a few acknowledge him with a slight nod or smile or bit of eye contact, which makes Jonny feel a little more awkward, hoping Patrick's almost done. He's got to be—even doing rough math, there can't be more than a half-dozen or so people left in the locker room.

 

The words that come to him next, a little easier to hear now that it seems most of the players have taken off, are muffled at first, and then the voices seem to move closer. Jonny's not really paying attention, trying to occupy himself with checking his email—until certain words catch his attention.

 

"We didn't know you were dating Hot Smoothie Guy!" someone says, and Jonny looks up from his phone, startled, to stare at the wall behind which the voices are coming from. "Good job, Peeks!"

 

"Who says I'm—wait, what?" Patrick's voice starts off defensive, and then he appears to take even longer really hearing what the other person has said than Jonny does. "Hot Smoothie Guy?"

 

"Yeah," a different voice says. "I mean, have you seen his ass?" Jonny's really glad there's no one else out in this hallway, because he can feel his face practically catch fire. Not that he's not flattered, as well, a little.

 

"THERE WILL BE NO MORE ASS-OGLING!" Patrick's voice rings out, clear as day, and Jonny snorts, half-amused and half-surprised. "Go to Jamba Juice, you lecherous assholes!"

 

"You do realize you're sending business _away_  from Jonny's shop, when you say that," someone says cheerfully. "I mean, we could probably get him an endorsement deal or something. Smoothie shop of the Chicago Blackhawks, something like that."

 

"...Fuck you guys and your fucking good ideas, damn it!"

 

There may or may not be more to that conversation, but Jonny doesn't know because he power-walks across the hall and down a ways, where he can't clearly hear whatever is or isn't being said—because if he hears any more, he's likely to be unable to contain his laughter. He has a hell of a time keeping a smirk off his face when Patrick and four other guys—Andrew, Brent, Duncan Keith, and captain Patrick Sharp—emerge from the locker room with their gear bags, jostling at each other as they walk. Brent and Duncan greet Jonny with grins and hellos, Andrew with a high-five, but Sharp gives Jonny this full-toothed grin that makes Jonny remember Patrick's bitching about the guy being Trouble. Not Serious Trouble, but more Jokester Asshole Everyone Still Loves Anyway.

 

Maybe he's on his best behavior because he's the captain and he and Jonny have never met, or maybe he's decided to lay off whatever sort of joking he normally does in favor of taking it easy on Patrick, or maybe he's just sizing Jonny up, but all he says is, "Ah, so you're Kaner's friend. Patrick Sharp," while holding out a hand for Jonny to shake.

 

"Jonathan Toews."

 

"You own the smoothie place downtown that Brent and Dayna like so much, right? The one that doesn't give the nutritionists a conniption fit? I've been meaning to stop in sometime."

 

Jonny doesn't know if that's true or just some bland pleasantry, but he nods and smiles and tells Sharp he's welcome anytime. The four of them head out with little more in the way of conversation—Andrew just mentions his girlfriend's been asking if the coconut date bars are a year-round thing and that she might end up in there at some point, if so, and Brent mentions emailing Jonny again about a recurring sort of order, like he did last season—and then they walk away, leaving Jonny and Patrick alone.

 

Jonny is, however, about sixty-five percent sure he hears Sharp mutter something about how there's no accounting for taste if Jonny thinks Kaner's ass is better, or something similar that causes Andrew to crack up as they step out into the sunlight.

 

"You have anywhere else to be?" Patrick asks, once they're alone. "Back to the shop or other errands or appointments?"

 

Jonny shakes his head. "Nope. Day off. Why?"

 

"Feel up to getting something to eat and hanging out at my place for a while?" Patrick grins. "Maybe watch a movie, play some video games? If you don't feel like it, I can just drop you off back at your place."

 

Eyebrows raised, Jonny snorts. Like he's going to say no to getting to spend time alone with Patrick. He's well aware those chances will be few and far between come October, especially since they've kept their relationship under wraps—or, well, they've not been broadcasting it, though Jonny thinks a handful of Patrick's teammates have figured it out, given what he'd overheard just a little while ago. "Where did you have in mind for lunch?"

 

Patrick's grin goes even wider, like he'd thought Jonny might actually say no. "There's that little place near me that does to-order stir-fries. Rice, meat, whatever veggies you want. They even do gluten-free soy sauce and use a separate set of woks, I checked."

 

Jonny nods, kind of touched Patrick actually thought ahead like that. "Yeah, sounds good."

 

They swing by the place and get their food to go, and Jonny tags along behind Patrick once they're out of his car, trying not to stare or anything once they're in the lobby of his building and heading for the elevator. He's been here a few times, but it's still kind of ridiculous how nice it is. It's honestly the most surreal thing about dating Patrick, so far. Jonny takes the bag of food as Patrick uses his key fob to gain access to his floor, then follows him down the hallway, making sure to touch the wall before he touches the door handle of Patrick's place, the same way Patrick does. The first time he'd come over—escorted by Patrick instead of one of the doormen, thankfully—he'd seen Patrick do it and figured it was some weird superstition, right up until he touched the knob to swing the door open a bit wider and gotten the shit shocked out of his hand. He'd made a startled noise and flailed his hand for a few seconds to shake the sting out, and just sighed at Patrick's sheepish, "uh, sorry, dude, I forgot—touch the wall next time; the hall carpets do that to you."

 

The place is big and there's no shortage of places to sit, but they still end up eating standing at Patrick's counter, leaning against opposite sides of the island. Patrick mows through his own food, and Jonny would make fun of him for it, but he remembers well enough how hungry he'd get after games and some practices until he gave up playing at twenty, sidelined by a knee injury that took a little too long to heal. It's fine now, but he never really got that momentum back like he wanted and switched focus, falling back on the other thing he loved and making it work for him as a lifestyle and way to pay the bills.

 

"Movie?" Patrick asks after he tosses their takeout trash into the bin and grabs himself another bottle of water, offering one to Jonny as he stands with the refrigerator door still open.

 

Jonny takes the bottle and nods. "Sure." And then he remembers where this went before, and hastily amends, "But no _Twilight_ , seriously. I don't care if you blame your sisters, I can't do it."

 

"C'mon, Jonny, it's _romantic_ ," Patrick sing-songs, smirking a little, and Jonny sighs deeply.

 

"Still a no." He hopes he never has to watch it, or any of those movies, really. The one exception—two, actually—he can think of is a slim chance anyway. He doesn't know if what he and Patrick have is destined to be serious enough that he'll meet Patrick's family and spend time with them in any sense—but if that happens, Jonny will relent and watch it if everyone else is (and he's still not one-hundred-percent certain Patrick's sisters won't reveal it's more their brother's thing than theirs, because he's starting to learn how much of a sap Patrick can actually be). The only other time Jonny will really relent is maybe on some special occasion, like Patrick's birthday. Maybe. Potentially.

 

"All right, fine."

 

They flop onto the couch together, and Jonny's glad they're far enough along in their relationship to skip all that awkward bullshit about not knowing how close to sit and all assorted considerations. He stretches his legs out, throws one arm along the back of the couch, and promptly has Patrick against his side, pressed close and comfortable like he's always belonged there as he uses the remote to find something for them to watch. It's just some comedy, one of those over-the-top ones Jonny sometimes likes but feels like he shouldn't, and he's really not paying attention, more content to just lounge and listen to Patrick laugh, rubbing small, absent-minded strokes against Patrick's bicep while Patrick's hand rests atop Jonny's thigh, a warm, pleasant weight against the denim of his jeans.

 

At some point, Patrick's hand slides higher up Jonny's thigh, and he leans in more, resting his head against Jonny's shoulder. A few minutes after that, the hand on his leg moves again, fingers curling against Jonny's inner thigh, scratching lightly, and when Jonny looks down and raises his eyebrows at Patrick in a 'what's up?' sort of inquiry, Patrick surges up and meets him for a long kiss, and Jonny doesn't even bother trying to follow the rest of the movie, giving up entirely in favor of kissing Patrick back.

 

He shifts on the couch several moments later and Patrick follows right along, until Jonny's the one leaning up against the arm of the thing with Patrick climbing on top of him and straddling his thighs, pressing him against the corner of the couch and keeping him there with hot, wet kisses and fingers digging into his shoulders, though not enough to hurt or leave any marks. He rocks against Jonny's lap, and the friction, added to the soft noises Patrick's making and the things he's doing with his tongue, makes Jonny's dick start to firm up. He forces himself up a little, grabbing Patrick by the hips to improve his leverage, sliding him back, and the movement reveals a noticeable bulge in Patrick's shorts as well. "Hold on," he mutters against Patrick's mouth, then uses his grip to basically flip Patrick down onto his back on the couch, settling himself so he's the one lying on top, his thighs nestled between Patrick's spread ones.

 

They kiss like that for a while more, until Jonny raises himself up and gets a hand down between them. Patrick moans, soft and low, and yeah, he's fully hard. Jonny drags his palm up and down the front of Patrick's shorts, loving each gasp and noise and shiver that results, the way Patrick's back arches a little and his head tilts back, baring his throat, just inviting Jonny to get his mouth on it, sucking kisses into the skin and trying to be mindful not to leave any marks that will still be there come tomorrow.

 

"Not that this isn't fun or—Jesus Christ, Jonny, right there, yeah—fun or anything, but maybe we can hit pause and move this whole thing to the bedroom," Patrick says, panting, as Jonny licks and sucks at his neck and collarbone, nosing aside the fabric of his T-shirt to get at the skin there. "Because this is a decent-sized couch and all, but I'm pretty sure my bed is better up to this task."

 

He has a point there, especially since Jonny's caught himself from rolling right off the side of the thing once already. "Yeah. Let's go." He climbs off Patrick and holds out a hand to help him up once he's steady on his own feet. Somehow, though, they don't make it all the way to the bedroom before Patrick's got him pressed against a wall, tugging at Jonny's lower lip with his teeth and fumbling with the button and fly of his jeans. Patrick's shorter than he is, but he's broad across the shoulders and impressively built from the thighs up, and he's got definite strength in his arms—enough to keep Jonny pinned where he wants him, once his jeans are down around his thighs and his shirt's rucked up enough that Jonny can feel the rough texture and coolness of the wall against the bare skin of his back. "I thought you said bedroom," he gasps just as Patrick pulls back the band of Jonny's underwear and rubs his thumb over the head of his exposed dick, spreading the bead of precome with the movement. "Fuck, Patrick."

 

"I was actually thinking blowjobs," Patrick murmurs into his ear, and yeah, okay, that's fine by Jonny. "And then a nap. And then maybe round two, the specific activities for which we'll figure out a little later. How's that sound?"

 

Jonny doesn't even use words in response; he just sort of growls, low in his throat, and pushes himself off the wall, into Patrick with enough momentum to get him to step backwards, so Jonny can walk them through the open bedroom door just down the hall. Patrick's got a sinful fucking mouth, pretty pink lips that Jonny loves to see wrapped around his dick and a tongue that's absolutely, wickedly talented. And as far as reciprocation goes, Jonny's a pretty big fan of Patrick's dick, too. It's maybe average length, but nice and thick and just somehow appealing in a way Jonny can't quite define.

 

He gets his clothes the rest of the way off in short order, following Patrick's lead, and he makes his way towards the bed as Patrick rifles through the top middle drawer of the dresser against the wall. Jonny expects the bottle of lube in Patrick's hand as he turns around, but not the condoms. Not that it matters too much to him—they've both been tested recently, fully negative results leading to a round of celebratory blowjobs and rimming the day they arrived—since he figures it's rude to assume your partner always feels up to making the spit versus swallow decision.

 

Jonny was raised to be polite and considerate, thank you very much.

 

"Picked something up for you. Us. But especially you," Patrick says, moving back in and pressing a light kiss to Jonny's mouth. "Here."

 

He presses one of the foil packets into Jonny's hand, watching Jonny's face as he does it. He's got this look on his face, like he's trying and failing to contain some sort of glee, which really should be something Jonny picks up as a warning, by this point in their relationship.  At first Jonny's confused as to why this should be a special thing, since this is how they used to fool around in the beginning, anyway, and then he looks down at what he's holding, thinking maybe it'll be one of those warming condoms, or textured in some way, or one of the ultra-thin, enhanced-feeling ones.

 

It's safe to say, of all the things he thought might be unique about this condom, enough that it was specially selected, the metallic orange color underneath the words "limited edition" and larger, bolded letters proclaiming "pumpkin spice" over the image of a fucking pumpkin...well, those were not on the list. And his face must show how incredulous he feels, because Patrick cracks the fuck up, all that barely-contained mirth spilling over.

 

 

And Jonny...just can't. "No," he says, because he knows Patrick is a dork and all, but _come on_.

 

"Oh yes, Jonny. You know you love it. Think about it, it's the perfect fall indulgence! Maybe it'll even be kind of tingly, with the cinnamon and other spi—hey!" Patrick's so pleased with himself, smirking so wide his face might split, that he doesn't quite realize they're moving until Jonny shuts the bedroom door on him, turning the lock. "Hey, no fair! You can't lock me out of my own room!" He bangs on the door. "Jonny, come on, it was funny! Your _face_ , man. That was fucking hilarious." He laughs in spite of it all and bangs on the door again. "C'mon! Let me back in!"

 

Jonny grunts. Patrick's an asshole, and so is he, which is maybe part of why they work together so well. "Pumpkin spice, Pat, seriously?"

 

"I _had_  to, I couldn't pass that up!" Patrick calls through the door. "Come on, let's get back to what we were doing. You're still hard, right? Because I sure as hell am. You're so fucking hot, and I've been looking forward to this. The flavored condom was just a bonus." When Jonny doesn't respond, Patrick hits the door once more. "Dammit, Jonny, you better not be jacking off alone in there, to punish me!"

 

Jonny glances down, like his erection is betraying him by still being as strong as ever. He could, he's definitely still turned on; it's not like he hasn't been looking forward to spending quality alone time with his boyfriend. He has a brief thought of rolling on one of the condoms, jerking himself off until he comes, sliding it off and tossing it at Patrick and telling him he can get a taste that way, and snorts laughter. It's disgusting and he'd never go that far, but he bets Patrick's face would be pretty priceless as well. He steps forward and unlocks the door, yanking it open, and Patrick nearly falls on top of him. "You're lucky I fucking love you," he grumbles, and then freezes.

 

The first time he tells Patrick he loves him, and it's in the middle of this pumpkin spice bullshit. He's thought the words a dozen times or more, but still, leave it to him to blurt it out in this moment of all possible moments.

 

Patrick's staring at him, wide-eyed and mouth hanging open, and Jonny really shouldn't find that attractive at all. Just another sign he's in too deep. Patrick catches him off-guard then, his brain apparently coming back online all at once, and he essentially lunges at Jonny, getting one hand around the back of his neck and dragging him in for a long, deep kiss that leaves Jonny feeling breathless and dizzy. "I love you too, you pumpkin-spice-hating freak," he whispers, finally pulling back. His eyes are an impossibly bright shade of blue and a little wet, and yeah, Jonny loves this sappy, ridiculous dickhead. "Now let me blow you already."

 

...It's probably not the most romantic line ever spoken, but it sounds pretty good to Jonny all the same.

 

He lets himself be pushed towards the bed, Patrick's hands guiding him as he steps backwards until the mattress hits the back of his thighs. Patrick's giving him this look like he really has been waiting for this for the nearly three weeks since they last got to really fool around, and when he sinks down to his knees and looks up at Jonny through his long lashes, Jonny thinks that he can forgive Patrick a lot of things, including maybe pumpkin-spice-flavored condoms.

 

Speaking of.

 

His forgiveness is tested seconds later, when Patrick tears the foil packet open, pulling out the condom that is just a vibrantly orange as Jonny had feared it would be. "Seriously?" he asks, unable to keep the question back.

 

Patrick grins at him. "Wouldn't want to let them go to waste."

 

Jonny spares a moment to despairingly wonder just how many of these things Patrick managed to acquire, and then Patrick's rolling the condom over his dick, and he kind of forgets to care so much about it after that. Patrick licks under the head of his dick once, makes a considering sort of face, and promptly takes Jonny a few inches into his mouth so quick, giving a firm suck, while looking up at him that Jonny's knees almost give out on him. "Oh, fuck."

 

Mouth full, Patrick hums what seems to be amusement and wow, okay, the humming makes up for the way the condom mutes other sensations. Patrick can hum all he likes. Jonny will even let him hum the damned _Star-Spangled Banner_ , if he wants.

 

Patrick knows just how to suck him off, when to swirl his tongue, when to hollow his cheeks and suck harder, when to focus on just the head and the inch or so right under it and when to take Jonny deep, so the tip of his dick hits the back of his throat. He does it like he was born to do it, like he loves it, like God put him here on this earth just for hockey and this, and Jonny's brain loses absolutely all higher functioning, lost in sensation and aware of little other than Patrick's mouth around him, enveloping him with that wet heat, and the feel of his own fingers tangled loosely in the curls at the back of Patrick's head. He opens his mouth to tell Patrick he's close, but Patrick's already figured it out. He wraps one hand around the base of Jonny's dick and strokes in time to his other ministrations, moves his other hand from where it's been resting on Jonny's right ass cheek to cup his balls, and Jonny's done. He couldn't hold out longer if he wanted to. Patrick pulls off after Jonny's done, giving one last suck at the oversensitive tip that has Jonny weakly laughing "that tickles, fucker," even as his knees decide they're done holding him up and buckle, depositing him on the mattress so conveniently positioned behind him.

 

Patrick wanders out and then back in, holding a towel, and cleans Jonny off as he's getting his breath back. "Still mad at me?" he asks, smirking because he knows the answer. His voice is a little rough, and Jonny's not surprised at all. He put some definite work in.

 

Jonny raises his eyebrows and stands, getting his hand around Patrick's neck and tugging him close. "What do you think?" he murmurs against Patrick's swollen mouth, reaching a hand down to wrap around Patrick's dick, stroking it very deliberately.

 

"Don't seem all that mad," Patrick says, moaning a little when Jonny twists his wrist on an upstroke and thumbs at the slit where a bead of precome has welled up, then rubbing that bit of moisture underneath the head. "Or Canadians are weirder about showing anger than I thought."

 

Jonny snorts. "Shut up, Patrick." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the other unopened condom sitting on the carpet and he makes a decision he hopes he won't regret. He picks it up, ignoring Patrick's noise of protest when he steps away, and takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "One time," he says, firmly, holding it up in front of Patrick's face. "Just once."

 

It says a whole lot about just how much Jonny does actually love this asshole that he's doing this at all. He'd be disappointed in himself, except the look of utter, delighted surprise on Patrick's face makes it worth it.

 

He has Patrick lean against the mattress of the high bed, dropping down to his knees so he can roll it on. He's deeply grateful for the thick carpet in Patrick's condo. Once it's in place, he looks up. "Tell me when you're close." He waits till Patrick actually answers with a nod and a breathy, "yeah, okay," and then slowly slides Patrick's dick into his mouth.

 

It's not awful, really, and it's not Jonny's first time with a flavored condom. In fact, Jonny would readily admit (to himself, anyway) that the pumpkin spice version is a hell of a lot less disgusting than the banana-flavored condoms his ex kept on hand. It's maybe even on par with the strawberry he tried once. Still, it's really just more cinnamon and something vaguely nutmeg-like than anything else. He can handle this and not worry about it adding to his gag reflex or anything.

 

He goes slowly, trying to draw out the activity, partially to show Patrick that he's a good sport about the joke, but mostly because Patrick's vocal in his pleasure and Jonny fucking loves to hear it. He works just the head and the first inch or so of Patrick's shaft for a couple of minutes, listening to the noises Patrick makes when he changes speed or swirls his tongue or takes him a little deeper. "God, you look so good with your mouth on my cock," Patrick murmurs a few minutes in, reaching up to play with his own nipple. "Make me feel so good." Jonny takes the compliment, but he knows Patrick's the one with real skill at this. Jonny's pretty sure his blowjob skills are somewhere in the slightly-above-average department, but he does pride himself on being a considerate, reactive partner (even though he believes his real skill set is more in the rimming and prostate stimulation department, from all past evidence). Still, that's what practice is for. He can always be better.

 

He gets one hand around the base of Patrick's dick to give himself a little easier time of it while still making it good for Patrick, then pushes lightly at the inside of Patrick's thighs with his other hand until he gets the hint and spreads his legs further apart. Jonny reaches up to where he can massage up behind Patrick's balls with his thumb and first two fingers, the part of his dick that's deep within his body and usually neglected. Patrick moans on the first deep stroke, a long, drawn out "oh my God," that ends with a sharp inhale. Jonny keeps going, timing the massage to each bob of his head and stroke of his hand, loving the way Patrick half-moans, half-whimpers with increasing frequency until it's almost a stutter. Jonny tilts his head slightly to the right and Patrick chokes out "oh, fuck, okay, I'm close."

 

Jonny sits back, dropping the hand between Patrick's legs and taking his mouth off Patrick, who whines a little. "Hold on," he rasps, wiping the spit off his chin with the back of his wrist. "Stay just like that." He keeps the hand on the base of Patrick's dick in place, then removes the condom swiftly, tossing it towards the trash can at the side of the bed. He leans back in, licking once at the underside of Patrick's dick with the flat of his tongue, smirking a little when Patrick's hips buck. He gets back into the same position he was in a few seconds ago, resuming the pace he had going and the slight tilt of his head. Patrick's definitely close, probably aided by the sudden increase in sensitivity, and the soft, panted chant of "oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," that tumbles from Patrick's mouth is one of Jonny's favorite things. Patrick warns him when he's about to come, broken words that get the idea across anyway, and Jonny swallows it all down, every last bit, pulling away and sitting back on his heels just as Patrick lets himself fall backwards onto the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes with his legs hanging off the bed from the knees down.

 

Jonny reaches for the towel, climbs up next to him and returns the favor of cleaning him off a little. "Better than pumpkin spice, that's for damned sure," he murmurs, and Patrick laughs. "I still can't believe you brought those things home."

 

"They _called_  to me. I had to." He removes the arm from over his eyes and looks at Jonny. "Stay and nap?"

 

Jonny nods. "Yeah." He doesn't have anywhere else he has to be, anywhere else he'd _rather_  be.

 

He slides beneath the covers next to Patrick a moment later, fitting his body around Patrick's shorter, more compact one. Sleep finds him quickly and, when Jonny wakes again, the light in the room is a little less harsh, the sun now lower in the sky. He extricates himself from his spot and leaves Patrick sleeping, then heads to the kitchen after a brief stop in the guest bathroom.

 

Jonny's standing at the kitchen counter in his boxers and T-shirt, waiting for the water to boil for the tea Patrick keeps on hand for him—the organic green loose-leaf one he likes best—when a thought hits him. He picks up his phone and starts searching, not even entirely sure what he's aiming for, exactly, until he finds it—and then he lets out an evil chuckle, places an order, and sets his phone down to pour hot water over the tea leaves.

 

While his tea steeps, he fiddles with his phone, going back and clearing out old emails and old images out of his camera roll. Jonny pauses when he comes across the image he had one of his employees take with his phone the other day during one of their slow periods. He stares at it for a few moments before he shakes his head and opens his Instagram app, typing out a quick message, something simple and to the point that he only has to edit seven times before he's satisfied it's an acceptable level of cheerful, inviting, and professional: _If you haven't tried it yet, stop by and check out our new Harvest Spice Smoothie! Pairs perfectly with our Pumpkin Pie Bites. Come on in and indulge in what the fall has to offer._  He tags a couple of the main ingredients, trying not to cringe when one of the suggested ones is _#pumpkinspicelife_ , and posts the photo of the shop's newest smoothie and snack, wondering how he ended up doing this thing in the first place. His phone buzzes quietly against the countertop just as he's removing the infuser from the mug, and Jonny glances down after putting everything away to see a notification at the top of his screen:

 

_@88pkane likes this_

 

He doesn't even have a chance to clear it before another notification pops through, this time for a text message: _Grab me a bottle of water, and I won't even say anything about your social media game._

 

Jonny rolls his eyes, smiling a little in spite of himself. He grabs a water from the fridge and carries it and his mug down the hall and into the bedroom, where Patrick's sprawled on the bed, grinning as Jonny steps through the door. Patrick stands up and takes the water with a thank you, then snorts as Jonny's phone buzzes twice more in quick succession. "Turn off your push notifications for your accounts, or you might be hearing that a lot." Jonny makes a face but does it anyway, because he hasn't gone through and custom-tailored the account settings on two of the three social media platforms yet, other than making sure he can do one post and have it come through in all three places without any extra work. There's a learning curve on this shit, apparently.

 

"There," he says, tossing his phone onto the bed beside Patrick's. "Now what?"

 

Patrick shrugs as he drains half the bottle of water at once before answering. "You feel like staying the night?"

 

"Yeah, sure." He's got tomorrow off, too, and only one errand he really has to get done, but that can be done any time of day.

 

"Then maybe we should figure out dinner."

 

"And didn't you say something about round two, earlier?" Jonny asks, taking a small sip of his tea and putting it on the night stand until it's a little cooler.

 

"I did." Patrick reaches out and snags Jonny's wrist, pulling him close so he can stand up on his toes and kiss him. "And regarding the plans for that..."

 

"Yeah?"

 

"You remember how, the other week, you told me I could take everything pumpkin spice and shove it up my ass?" Patrick says, smirking. "We still have four of those condoms left. I was thinking you could wear one and we could do something a little more literal—hey!" he exclaims as Jonny tackles him to the bed. He fights off the pillow Jonny shoves over his face, laughing. "You fucking love me and you know it."

 

Jonny looks down at him, at his messy hair, wide smirk, flushed cheeks, and bright blue eyes. "Heaven help me," he says with a snort, then ducks his head and kisses Patrick, mid-laugh. He loves him enough to willingly go through _two_  more of those damned pumpkin spice things before he leaves the next morning, in fact. And—all things considered—that's fucking saying something.

 

Also, payback's a bitch, and Jonny's going to win this one. And he knows that not only will Patrick's reaction be priceless when Jonny enacts it, but that Patrick's still going to love him back, anyway.

 


End file.
